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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28331094">Song for a Winter Night</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus'>trepidatingboarfetus</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 18:15:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,882</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28331094</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/trepidatingboarfetus/pseuds/trepidatingboarfetus</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If I could only have you near<br/>To breathe a sigh or two<br/>I would be happy just to hold the hands I love<br/>On this winter night with you<br/>And to be once again with you</p><p>Trevor Philips has only a few wishes this Christmas.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Song for a Winter Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenomansland/gifts">thenomansland</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is part one of a Christmas gift for a very good friend, and I was asked by someone else if I would stick these up here, so here they are. Enjoy and Happy Holidays/Better Days to everyone. &lt;3</p><p>Song for a Winter Night belongs to Gordon Lightfoot (another good Canadian).</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The commercials on his old tube TV sing excitedly about how this is <em> the most wonderful time of the year</em>, and he knows that it’s definitely fucking far from being that. It hasn’t been his favorite season, holiday, or any other thing at all in a long time. There’s no snow falling outside his window -- it’s not exactly a rarity in Sandy Shores, but it’s not like it’s goddamn Canada either -- but otherwise, he has the makings in the works for a classic Gordon Lightfoot song: a lamp glowing lowly over his trailer deck, booze in his hand, a fire in a barrel before him, and plenty of silence at this time of night...which <em> that</em>, in itself, might actually be uncommon for this area.</p><p>He also has plenty of thoughts about someone on his mind though he doubts that ol’ Mikey is lonely and thinking of him too, not when he has family to surround him during times like this. </p><p>And who is <em> he </em> to judge? Hell, maybe that’s all he needs is a McMansion in pretend paradise, a couple of overly spoiled kids, a plastic wife, and a pool by which to drink mimosas all the live-long fucking day. </p><p>Nah...fuck no. Can’t be him.</p><p>He wouldn’t say he’s happy by any means, but he can’t complain either, he knows. This is far away from the Christmases of yore where he cowered under his bed from his family, blood or foster, no presents to call his own and no beliefs in a jolly red fat man unless the red was from disease, and the guy came attached with booze while paying his mother a visit. And of course, there were the others that came later where he spent the freezing streets walking without even a jacket to warm him, searching in vain for some sort of self-gratification if no one else would provide him any. </p><p>Of course, he has some pleasant memories hidden in there, too, but they revolve around Townley Christmases, and before that, they involve just Mikey-boy and himself, but those are tucked away in special compartments he only accesses when it’s just him, when it’s safe to let his guard down for a while. </p><p>He isn’t sure tonight’s the night. So many years later, and the wounds still bleed if poked. Will they ever heal? He doesn’t know. </p><p>As he gulps down some Evan Williams -- because what Christmas wouldn’t be complete without eggnog of some variety, after all -- his thoughts trail back to simpler times, like waiting too long to find a tree because there wasn’t enough money to spare, but they’d promised the kids there would be one, so he had grabbed a hatchet and found a wooded area where some poor farmer wouldn’t miss one fucking pine tree, but of course, he’d realized his folly when they’d gotten it tied to the car and saw that it was cedar, and no one had cared by then. Mike had said, “A tree is a fucking tree, ain’t it?” And they had laughed and laughed and laughed until they’d kissed right there under the newly falling snow.</p><p>Why was he always doing things like that?</p><p>Well, he knows why <em> he </em> did it. The individual flakes had landed in Mikey’s hair and lashes, covered his flushed cheeks, and it was the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, so he couldn’t help himself, but what he didn’t know was why Mike didn’t stop him. Why was he always kissing him back? Trevor gave him an inch, Mike gave him way more than a mile. </p><p>He shakes his head and takes another swig, dwells on another memory. A credit union they robbed in some podunk shithole just to have some money to get presents for Jimmy who wouldn’t be old enough to remember, but Tracey definitely would, and that’s all that mattered. And of course, Amanda mattered somewhere in there to Mike and maybe a little to Trevor too in those days even if it’s like pulling teeth to admit that.</p><p>The holidays are different and just have that effect on him, he tells himself. </p><p>He remembers being in a gracious mood then, not having to raise his voice much to intimidate, not having to point his gun but maybe once...maybe because it was close to Christmas, everyone just wanted to be alive, so no one cared about some stupid nine to five <em> that </em> much. That job had been way too easy. They were in and out in a matter of minutes, really. No-fuss, no-muss, The kind of stuff Mikey liked. </p><p>They stuck to the alleys anyway as a precaution, but the first building they came across that seemed lonely and unused in quite some time, Mike ducked them into it, and he didn’t think much at first...thought maybe Mikey had seen something he didn’t because fuck knows he could be oblivious sometimes when he was hopped up on the rush. </p><p>And he <em> was </em> oblivious -- oblivious to lips crashing down on his while a hand snaked its way through the front of his jeans and past his underwear to grip him. </p><p>There were so many good times like that, even by themselves, held up in motels watching tired old bullshit like <em> A Miracle On 34th Street </em> and <em> It’s A Wonderful Life </em> with him idly remarking on how none of that idealistic blather made actual sense while they snorted lines and drank themselves stupid before finding comfort in each other’s arms. And it would let him forget how shitty his childhood had been, just for a little while. He felt loved, safe, wanted, and normal. Just for a while. </p><p>But it never lasted. </p><p>As he nears the bottom of his bottle, he recalls every single one of those movies Michael forced him to watch over their years together before...certain things <em> happened</em>...and he finds himself wishing that just once that his life was like one of those movies, and that something nice would befall him, that maybe Christmas miracles <em> do </em> exist, that Santa <em> is </em> real. </p><p>He just wants to be remembered this year. He wants to be a part of something like he was so long ago. He doesn’t want to be alone anymore. Fuck, he even wishes it would snow just to see the flake-kissed lashes of Mikey once more like in his memories. </p>
<hr/><p>He has no recollection of drifting off into sleep, but he’s not only nudged awake by a blanket of coldness that wasn’t there before but also a gloved hand keeps pushing at his shoulder. He fades in and out of pleasant Mike-filled dreams, half-expecting the offensive limb to belong to Ron or Wade, so he barks in his typically gruff manner, “Hey, unless someone’s coming to kill me, I don’t give a fuck, and even then, I still don’t!”</p><p>Only to be met with, “Pretty sure I’m not here to kill you, but is there something else I should know?”</p><p>It’s almost as if he’s Scrooge, and the Christmas voices from his past, present, and future all wrapped into one are visiting him right now. “What the fuck are you doing here, Michael?” He regards him with a slit-eyed stare, feels like he’s taking in a ghost thanks to all of the substances in his system. </p><p>“Is that any way to greet someone on Christmas, ya asshole?”</p><p>Trevor snorts pensively and hocks to the ground, not far from this apparition of the night’s feet. “I’d feel bad if you weren’t a figment of my fucked up head.” Then it dawns on him that he’s covered in something white and frigid. Something that rarely touches him these days. “Just like this shit. What the fuck is <em> this </em> doing here?” </p><p>The Michael in front of him begins to chuckle as if Trevor has said the most inane shit on the planet. “It’s a dusting. It happens. I’d figure your brain isn’t so far gone that even you’d know that and recognize this bullshit still when you see it.”</p><p>He slips into their commonplace routine of arguing or at least tries to, but something stops him when a small random hope from last night slides into his brain, that wish for snow, and he swallows hard. </p><p>“Y-you...you really <em> are </em> here, aren’t you? This isn’t a dream?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer; he pulls out his cell, brings up the name he already has saved though it shouldn’t matter because the number has already been committed to memory for some time now, presses call with a cold trembling finger, and then hears the chorus of <em> Ever Fallen In Love </em> by Buzzcocks ringing in Mike’s slacks. </p><p>The owner of said slacks looks down at the offending noise coming from his pocket and then back up at Trevor with a nervous grin while his hand works to fish it out and silence it. </p><p>They both glare at each other for several minutes until Trevor breaks the uneasy quiet. “So...uh, you got better taste in ringtones, at least.” The man before him nods slightly, and Trevor frowns, trying again. “Mike, now that I’ve established I’m not going crazy, what the fuck are you doing here? I’d like to believe in Christmas miracles, but I’m not that kind of guy, and you have a family as you’ve reminded me so many fucking times before in so many eloquent ways. What’s up?” </p><p>He folds his arms, sits patiently, knows there’s a catch, <em> has </em> to be one. Nothing good ever comes to Trevor Philips. </p><p>Michael Whatever-The-Fuck-He-Goes-By-These-Days takes a seat on the arm of Trevor’s sofa chair and gazes into the dimly-lit barrel sullenly. “Can’t a guy visit his buddy? Ya know, on Christmas for fuck’s sake?” </p><p>“We’re barely buddies,” Trevor mumbles under his breath -- perhaps a bit dejectedly, but he won’t let Michael Fuckingsnake know that -- when suddenly he feels the comfy heat of a hand folding into his, and he looks down to find Mikey’s joined to him just like so many years ago. </p><p>As it’s meant to be. </p><p>When he peers up into those eyes cast dark by the night sky, there’s a glimpse of Michael Townley still there behind everything else he’s become. </p><p>And there, unexpectedly, or maybe miraculously -- which one, he’ll never <em> really </em> know or find the balls to ask -- are snowflakes kissing his eyelashes like pieces of glistening nostalgia. </p><p>It’s not even a conscious effort to yank Michael into his arms and lick those bits of fluff from his eyes or to continue a hot trail to his chilled lips as his friend moans appreciatively. Everything just gravitates into place, like they never had years of separation. </p><p>When did happiness last fall in his lap like this? </p><p>Michael’s index finger comes up to trace his chin gently. “I came to invite you back for the holidays. We’ve got a tree, presents, liquor, the kids are loud and obnoxious...it’s like old times if you want to hang.” Tears form as he leans his forehead against this blessed gift in front of him and wonders what the fuck he did right in this universe for once to deserve something <em> so good </em> as he hugs Michael to him, nodding and whispers, “Yeah, yeah, I’d like that...I’ve got everything I already asked for right here though.”</p>
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